A Bored Prince
by Mazcotmaker
Summary: Prince Louis is 5 years old and bored at the presentation of local dignitaries. The Musketeers are on hand when danger looms.


Disclaimer - the characters are not mine sadly.

Porthos felt the kick to his shin and looked down to see the young Prince Louis staring up at him. "Yes your majesty?" he said quietly. "I'm bored" the Prince answered back in a fractious tone of voice. "You and me both" Porthos thought silently.

The musketeers were providing an honour guard at a royal reception for local dignitaries. The Prince had sat by the King's side for less than a half hour before looking for alternative entertainment. His escape had gone unnoticed by the King who was enjoying the attentions of his sycophantic subjects. The young prince was confident of the familiar musketeers Athos, Porthos, D'Artagnan and Aramis, especially Aramis who always seemed to be the first to volunteer for duties that brought him into the presence of the 5 year old Louis.

D'Artagnan, who was standing to the left of Porthos, also looked down and smiled. "It is your duty to be interested in the people here, they are your subjects and the King expects it". "Boring boring boring" chanted little Louis. "When I am King we will have games at all royal events and everyone will have to bring their children to play the games with the princes." "What about the princesses?" asked the younger musketeer. "They can sit at my feet and look pretty" came the swift reply "girls are boring." Boring seemed to be his favoured word of the day.

The two musketeers glanced briefly at each other trying not to laugh as the petulant prince aimed a kick at Porthos' other shin. Having waited so long for an heir the King spoilt the prince. "Brat" thought Porthos hoping he wouldn't accidentally think such treasonous thoughts aloud. Meanwhile the Prince moved on to D'Artagnan's shins while demanding a game of hide and seek. In truth they both liked youngster but wished the King did not indulge him quite so much. The King was currently engrossed in his guests who each seemed bent on exceeding the flattering attentions of the dignitary preceding them. King Louis XIII never tired of flattery. The Queen however, was stealing glimpses at her son as often as she could allow her concentration to stray from the guests.

As Porthos turned back to face the line of public figures waiting their turn to be presented to the King Louis and Queen Anne he caught a movement in the balcony at the back of the ballroom. The balcony should have been empty. His first thought was of servants who were adept at finding ways to take secret peeks at the royal family and guests at these events. These innocuous thoughts turned to horror as he caught a glint of light reflecting from a pistol aimed towards him, or rather towards little Louis who was now tugging the front of his blue musketeer robe. Everything seemed to proceed in slow motion as it always did in such times of danger when swift action was required. D'Artagnan felt rather than saw Porthos tense and following his line of sight also spotted the barrel of a pistol and a black clad arm visible above the parapet of the balcony.

A shot rang out as Porthos reached down to grab the prince and swing him behind his own body to act as a shield. D'Artagnan had drawn his own pistol automatically but his arm was still moving to aim the weapon as the shot sent nobles and their ladies scurrying for shelter. Many were now lying prostrate on the floor as women swooned and their menfolk cowered in fear. The two musketeers mentally checked themselves for pain or injury. Was it possible the shooter missed the boy and both musketeers? The Queen screamed and launched herself in the direction of her son. At the same time Porthos retreated behind a large urn shielding the wide-eyed but silent prince as D'Artagnan ran for the staircase which led to the balcony. He was desperately hoping to reach the shooter before he could reload. He stopped, confused as blood dripped from the balcony to the floor ahead of him, splashing the skirt of a horrified noblewoman who seemed too petrified to move out of the flow. Looking round the Gascon caught sight of a wisp of dissipating smoke and the smell of black powder coming from the other side of the ballroom where Athos and Aramis had been standing. He saw the look of rage on Aramis' face as he too charged for the balcony stair.

It seemed Aramis had been first in spotting the assassin and saving the life of his beloved son. It was the first time he had kept his promise to Anne to watch over the boy and guard him. It was unlikely to be the last.

My first fiction writing effort since I left school


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